imagine: pale blue air balloon,

greying wave of corpse decay

organs swelling, cities sinking.

Earth, she weeps, sweeps mankind wombwards,

past etiquette to creature code—

just crust, chest-thumps, and angry boils

bursting hellfire-high, warming

hovering hands, soft and scarless,

hanging from the blue balloon,

raking through the greying wave.

they say mercy, they’re drowning!

mercy from the mountaintop,

they say I should strip and jump down,

say “I’ll drown with you,” probably.

that’s you at the end of times,

that’s you.

hope this was helpful!

more like: jars of grey fingers,

severed sobbing, scarred and sacred,

stacked on ring-shaped shelves that globe,

round glass bluing light that pierces

the poet’s studio. Here, the

knuckle orchard grows, formalde-

hidden, then sewn back to stubs

when the well dries, it’s time to write

words only severed fingers

can scribe; the only words allowed

when the sky splits: mercy dies.

when the sky splits: cannibalize

the poets first when God bears fangs.

bloodless prose is a rich man’s game.

that’s who you want to be,

that’s who.

hope this was helpful!